Ascent
by Trinity Everett
Summary: Two years is a long time to wait.  TonyMichelle.  Season 7 speculation and wishful thinking.


Title: Ascent

Pairing: Tony Almeida/Michelle Dessler

Word Count: 1,449

Rating: R - for some language (zee 'F'-bomb), and some sexual imagery (very tastefully mentioned, however).

Genre: Little bit of angstin', little bit of happy.

Spoilers: Season 5, Season 7 wishful thinking.

Summary: Two years is a long time to wait.

Disclaimer: I usually forget this part, but I feel that I should mention that I am claiming no ownership to Jack Bauer, Tony Almeida, or Michelle Dessler, although I really want to, 'cause I'd love them and snuzzle them, and keep them very happy if I did. So, please take no legal action against me.

Notes: This fic totally ate my brain this afternoon, but since I was really excited to write it, I'm also really excited to post it, and thus, it has only been looked at by me before it was posted.

* * *

It's all he's wanted for over two years.

Each night it has been his last thought upon falling asleep, and it is the first thing on his mind each morning as he awakes. Some days he remains in bed, staring at the dingy ceiling of whatever lowest-end motel he is staying in that day, and imagines what it would be like to have it done.

At first he had dwelled on how it could have - should have - been long into the day, remaining under the covers in his underwear as he imagined how he could even hope to continue. Gradually, his ruminations led to his anger, and his anger eventually spurred him into action, leaving one flea bag motel for another, and a new purpose.

Now though, now he just wants it to be over.

This isn't the first time he's held a gun on this man. Too many years ago, they faced off in the same positions. And close to three years after that, they did the same. Each time before, he had been the loser of the standoff. This time he intends to win.

"You don't have to do this, Tony," Jack insists from his position under his shoe. Sometime in the middle of their tussle, he gained the upper hand, and for once it is Jack who has been laid out on the ground.

He digs his foot a little harder into the other man's stomach, successfully shutting him up as the pressure on his broken ribs is too much for even him to handle.

"You aren't this person, Tony. You're not a killer. I know you aren't."

"Shut up!" he orders sharply, jamming his heel downward without feeling even a second thought.

He has killed more in the last two years than his entire stint with the marines, and all of it without remorse. They deserved no more remorse from him than they felt as they took her. They deserved nothing but the slow, painful ends that they met at his hands. Not even Jack deserved more. He is the cause of it all, after all, and warrants nothing different.

His hand shakes as he clicks off the safety on his 9mill, but he knows it is due to adrenaline, anticipation, excitement; he's thirsted for this for so long, it is only fitting.

Jack continues to talk to him, continues to distract him in hopes that he'll be able to take him off guard. A few more well placed jabs in the abdomen are enough to keep him from getting up, but he insists on speaking still.

"If killing me is what you need so badly, Tony, then do it. Get it over with. Do it!"

His fingers tighten around the handle, and his finger inches toward the trigger. So close. He is so close. Only Jack is left, and when he is gone, everyone responsible for taking her will be, too.

"Do it!" Jack shouts again, and the effort that takes causes him to tremble on the ground.

"Shut up!" he hisses, trying to block out his former best friend's voice. "Just, shut up, you selfish bastard. You fucking have to have everything - the last word, the ability to get yourself off scot free, the friends in high places, ready to jump whenever you snap your fingers. All I had was her. And she's gone."

He grinds his teeth, pushing thoughts of her away. She wouldn't want this, he knows, and he never thinks of her when he's on a job.

"My death won't bring Michelle back."

He jabs his foot into Jack's stomach once more at the mention of his wife's name. Michelle. He hasn't said her name in years. She is simply 'she' or 'her' in his thoughts.

"Maybe not, but it'll mean something to me."

His mouth snaps closed, and his eyes harden again as his callused index finger caresses the metal of the trigger. He takes a deep breath, releasing it as he begins the gentle rolling squeeze.

"Tony!"

He freezes. She picks _now _to follow him into the daylight? Every night she visits, but never in the day. Every night she pushes him into the pillows, balming his anger and loneliness with her caresses, but eventually leaving him still wanting as his eyes open and he sees another dingy faded yellow wall instead of her big, round eyes, and wild curls. It is crazy, he knows, but he still clings to her nightly visits, if only to keep from forgetting her voice, her smile, her laugh.

His grip on the gun tightens.

"Tony, don't!"

Her voice again. What is wrong with him? He's never had to deal with this before, and he wants it to fucking stop. Michelle is dead. Michelle is dead.

"Michelle is dead," he whispers as he reaches for the trigger again.

Then there's a hand on his arm. A warm, delicate, soft hand; so much like hers. It caresses his arm exactly as she once did, and it gives him pause. It even bears the scar of the burn she incurred from her first attempt at making him a romantic dinner.

"Tony, don't," her voice urges from right beside him. Her voice seems to be attached to the hand that slides up to take the gun from his now limp fingers. A second hand joins the first in enabling the safety again, before both hands reach for his and draw them against a chest to feel the steady beat of a heart.

Jack takes advantage of his inattention and rolls away, but makes no move to arrest him like he should.

"Michelle is dead," he repeats, refusing to look beyond the tangle of fingers resting against warm flesh.

One of his hands is lifted up and caressed by lips, familiar lips, and his eyes finally snap up.

"Michelle is here," she insists, resting her cheek against his bloody, bruised knuckles. "I'm here, Tony. This is real."

"Michelle?" Her name is hoarse from his lips, but she nods and steps closer, close enough to allow him to drink in her familiar smell.

"This is real," she promises in that voice. That voice guarantees that he will believe her even if she says that the moon is made of green cheese.

She turns her head and kisses his thumb. Somehow his hand has begun to brush over her cheek, and while she certainly feels real right now, she feels just as real every night as she takes him into her mouth and brings him release, only to back away and send him crashing back to reality when he reaches for her. But here, with her lips against his fingers, her palm against his cheek, and their hands still joined against her chest, feeling her heart's solid thump, he believes.

"This is real?" he asks again, needing the confirmation.

She smiles softly, almost sadly. "Yeah, this is real, sweetheart."

He tugs her against him, and his face connects with the smooth, unmarred skin on her neck. He loses it then, coming apart in her arms the same way she's come apart in his so many times before. When his knees buckle and he begins to sink to the pavement, she lowers her body with his. Her fingers twist in his hair and the harsh shake of her body against his tells him that she, too, has broken down. Through their tears he hears her tell him how it's even possible for her to be there - CTU's mainframe getting hacked leading to being reported deceased, waking up in a hospital in Northern California with little recollection of how to do even basic tasks such as dress herself, finally regaining her life only to find out he had been presumed dead, and then making the connections between him and the deaths of those responsible for the attempts on their lives and tracking him down - and he realizes how much stronger than him she is; she always has been.

"It's okay," she whispers into his skin. "It's okay. It's alright. Let's go home, Tony. Let's go home."

Home. He hasn't had a home in over two years. Home was with Michelle and Michelle was -

Here.

His lips crash into hers, hard enough to bruise as his mouth opens and he seeks to taste her. Without reservation, she complies and does the same. She tastes like toffee candy - her favorite driving snack - and coke consumed in effort to keep herself awake on the way to him. She also tastes like sun and rain, and hope and joy, and all of the things he's been deprived of for so long.

It's - _she's_ - all he's wanted for over two years.

Finis.


End file.
